


Like A Paintball to the Craniocervical Junction

by goodnightfern



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M, awkward noncon, failed hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 18:52:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16247732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: Big Boss needs Adam to teach Master Miller a lesson. The only problem is, Miller learned this lesson decades ago.Wish #12





	Like A Paintball to the Craniocervical Junction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heavvymetalqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/gifts).



> for the prompt: 90s FOXHOUND. Big Boss, growing more and more paranoid of Master Miller, orders his trusted Adam to subdue him and fuck him as he watches, sure the humiliation of being assaulted by his nemesis will teach him his place. Too bad Ocelot and Kaz have been on the same side, and banging, since the seventies.
> 
> I went somewhere between the gruesome and the comedy.

Age had been kind to Miller, to John’s eternal annoyance. There were certain expectations when Miller came to FOXHOUND that the man in question seemingly had no intention of meeting. Even Adam, as hard as he searched, found no evidence of dissonance in that marriage. To all intents and purposes, Miller had not only moved on but even thrived.

Which meant Miller had an _attitud_ e. Swaggering around, parading his daughter about as if he was above it all. As if he had a life outside of Big Boss. Which only led to scenes like this one: Miller on one side of the desk, John on the other, and between them the nastiest sort of sexual tension Adam couldn't be fucked to deal with. 

“I don’t care what you do in your backwoods nuclear castle,” Miller snapped. “You pull this here, you’re looking to get court-martialed.”

“These are elite operatives, Kaz," John fired back, dragging on Miller's first name. "They're not kids. I think they can handle -”

“And this is Fort Irwin, not the Kalahari. You’re not going to get away with using live ammo for this training exercise.”

“At the right velocity even a paintball could crush a man’s larynx,” Adam cut in, already bored. “Not to mention discharging one of those CO2 cylinders would pack a helluva punch. One of those, right at the craniocervical junction? If not death, at least paralysis.”

Miller, sufficiently distracted, stared at him for a long moment before twisting his lips into a sneer. “Don’t forget, you could use the gun itself as a bludgeon. I guess you’re right: paintballs are much more deadly than .45 ACP.”

“A weapon is only as strong as the hands that wield it.”

“Exactly.” John nodded. “They’re not stupid. They’ll know to be careful.”

Kaz slapped both hands on the desk, not even bothering the disguise his sneer. “Great. Full speed ahead, Boss, I can’t _wait_. This’ll be better than the battle of Hamburger Hill. You’re out of your fucking mind, John.”

John made a strange growling sound in his throat. "You wanna try that again, Kaz?"

"Got it right the first time, thanks."

They were both simmering now. About to blow their lids, if only Adam could just turn the gas a bit lower. 

Thing was, Campbell wouldn't clear the exercise anyways. The discussion was over before it began: there was _absolutely_ no chance Big Boss would be allowed to conduct this exercise with live ammo. John knew it, Miller knew it, everyone knew it. They just needed something to butt their handsome heads over in this adjustment period. 

They were shouting now. Right on schedule. Adam didn't wear a watch, and Miller was moving too much for him to get a good look at the Rolex on his wrist. That was fine, he could stare at the Arctic-themed calendar on the wall that was still stuck on July because John couldn't be fucked to flip the pages. 

In fact, Adam had half a mind to just leave them there until John said, “ _Adam._ ”

“Yes?”

He threw a choking Miller across the desk, crushing one cigar and breaking an extremely expensive ashtray in the process.

“Why don't you, ah, _show him his place._ ” A heavy hand slapped Miller’s lower back.

"Can't you do it yourself?"

" _Adam._ "

Adam glanced at Miller, sputtering protests even through his soon-to-be-bruised esophagus. "What do you need from me?"

“You know what to do.”

There was a lingering little slyness to that. Enough for Ocelot to know exactly what John meant. Perhaps a little sudden, but, fine.

This was fine. Would be much easier than trying to get it up with, say, a female prisoner. Not that this was about sex, not for someone in Adam’s position. From the odd gleam in John’s eye, though - definitely about sex for him. Probably some long-held fantasy he’d clogged multiple shower drains with, judging by that particular smirk. As long as John would get off on it, who was Adam to argue? It was almost cute.

Adam moved over Miller, examining his new territory. Back in the seventies they might have exchanged a drunken handjob or two - only natural, for two men of their proclivities in close quarters. Adam wouldn’t remember; Miller drank a lot while John was in the coma.

“Oh, dear,” Miller deadpanned. “This has certainly never happened to me before. I’m quaking in my boots.”

He ignores the sounds Miller makes to knead his ass. Missing the flabbiness he acquired after losing his limbs. That was fine, too.

“Go on,” Miller snapped. “I’ve taken shits thicker than your dick.”

Right, this wasn’t going to work. No point if Miller wasn’t intimidated. But when Adam tried to signify this with a look, John lit a cigar.

This was pointless.

But Adam had a job to do, and so he pressed the quick-release on Miller’s bionic leg, disabling the current. That set him off balance a bit, so he did the same for his arm. With that he pinned both the deadweight and the live wrist up on the desk with one hand and yanked down Miller’s PT shorts with the other.

Miller had a nice ass, at least. Adam had no trouble getting it up. The problem was that Miller did absolutely nothing to stop Adam from spreading his legs.

“What’s the holdup? C’mon, I got a kid to pick up from school.”

Adam snapped. “John, he isn’t- “

“I know. Let’s spice it up a little. Russian roulette, maybe? Or some good old-fashioned -”

“Can’t you handle his mouth for me?”

John grunted around his cigar, then stuck the lit end in Miller’s mouth. That made him squirm, but his sphincter was still completely relaxed when Adam shoved in. A dry, muffled scream - was that the cigar burning his tongue, or Adam’s dick splitting him open?

He had to be careful; if he fucked Miller too hard, he’d start to bleed. It wouldn’t do to send him to medical like that; besides, Miller knew from experience it would only make the going easier.

Eventually Miller’s spit put out the cigar. John withdrew it, frowned, lit another. The scene Adam was trying to put on for him was clearly affecting him, but he still didn’t take out his own dick. Interesting.

He probably had some weird idea that Miller had to _earn_ it. Some twisted logic about dangling carrots and sticks and whatnot. Might work on horses, but not on donkeys. If you didn’t give them a bite of the old carrot every once in a while, your men would find new employment elsewhere. Higher-skilled employees, especially your desk force and researchers, aren't motivated by root vegetables and spankings. After all, this isn’t Soviet -

Adam abandoned that train of thought. Let it float, a cloud passing by in a sunny sky. Miller was warm and tight around him.

He wondered if he should angle for the prostate. On the one hand, making the victim come unwillingly was an essential part of the process. On the other hand, Miller wasn’t acting like any prisoner he’d ever fucked before. Maybe he shouldn’t give him that orgasm?

It’d be easier to concentrate were it not for Miller’s shoe, stroking up and down Ocelot’s calf.

Snake couldn’t see it from the other side of the desk. But the shoe kept moving, stuttering with each thrust, but definitely deliberate.

Ocelot held on to Kaz’s wrists and fucked until he was done.

Hours after, John asked: “What the hell was that?” 

Adam shrugged and said: “You saw what he was like.”

That night, after Big Boss was sated and asleep, Ocelot drove to Barstow with the windows rolled all the way down, letting the clean desert winds fill his ears. The condo Kaz shared with Nadine and Cathy was dark and silent, but a red dot in the front yard belonged to a lit cigarette.

The lawn was protected by a chain-link fence. No white picket fantasy, but practical and cheap. It wasn't locked, but Ocelot waited.

“Taking visitors?”

Kaz snorted something unintelligible; Ocelot took that as a yes.

There was an adorable breakfast nook in the front yard, surrounded by native plants and decked out with plastic furniture from Walmart. On the patio table was a half-empty pint of gin and Cathy’s nerf gun. Kaz pointed the nerf gun at Ocelot and said, “Gotcha," but even in the dark Ocelot caught the dart.

“Anything left for me?”

Kaz wiggled the gin in his direction. Ocelot took a seat. It wasn’t as bad as he expected; Kaz could afford the good stuff these days.

“How are you?”

“Drunk.”

It was a bad answer to a question Ocelot wasn't sure how to ask. Kaz had to be back at the PT field bright and early tomorrow, and Adam had his own duties to attend to. There was a reason he made this absurd drive Kaz subjected himself to daily just to avoid living on base, and it wasn't to drink. Now that he was here he couldn't remember it. But maybe Kaz could tell him what to do.

That question only made Kaz chuckle bitterly. “Try this. Say, 'I'm sorry, Kaz.’ “

“I'm sorry, Kaz.”

“Heh. A for effort." Grunting, Kaz rolled back his left shoulder. It must be aching, so Ocelot got up to seek out the tension there. Strained trapezius, as he expected. Kaz went rigid under his hands, but Ocelot folded both hands over his shoulder and pushed down, hard, until Kaz made an encouraging sound.

"Is your -"

"I'm fine," Kaz said quickly. "Like I said. Not my first rodeo."

“You know, he wouldn’t punish you like that if you weren’t so damn good-looking,” Ocelot offered. "I did warn you -”

“Shut the fuck up.”

But Kaz didn't push him away, or tell him to leave, or twitch away from his hands.

Ocelot looked up. The moon was past its zenith. In about four hours, Kaz would have to drive back to base. There seemed little chance of him sleeping; he'd need some extra coke with his coffee. The recruits would receive some especially creative insults at morning's PT. Adam would listen, but he wouldn’t smile.

“You've got to stop this self-hypnosis shit," Kaz said finally. "Or one day you'll do something you'll truly regret.”

Ocelot didn't believe that was possible, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.


End file.
